Clownfish Blues Read online

  He hung up, and the phone rang immediately.

  “Ziggy Blade, attorney at law, citizen of the planet . . . Oh, hi, Brook. What’s up? . . . I can’t hear you . . . I still can’t hear you! . . . Oh, right, that’s Hendrix. I’ll turn it down . . . Where were we? . . . I’m just in my office working on opening arguments for a jury. It’s a myth that goats eat tin cans, but they do climb trees if at the proper angle . . . No, no, no, no, I’m not high, no, no, okay yes, just a teensy bit, but only to center my head for the trial . . . Advice? What type of case? . . . Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh . . . What kind of drug residue on the cash? . . . Cocaine? Piece of cake. And I thought this was going to be a tough quiz. Miami Herald, 1985 . . . I realize newspaper articles can’t be introduced as evidence res ipso al fresco, so you federally cite Ninth Circuit Appeals Los Angeles 1994. Vast majority of all big-city bills test positive, higher in Florida. Takes as little as point-zero-zero-six micrograms . . . No, only a tiny percentage of the currency has been handled by traffickers. The rest is cross-contamination from ATMs and currency counters at banks. Remember how finely milled, weaponized anthrax got spread in 2001 from mail-sorting machines? . . . No, I didn’t take a special legal seminar. Everyone out on the street knows this stuff.”

  The stoned attorney listened to profuse thanks from the Women’s Legal Aid Clinic.

  “Just glad I could help,” said Ziggy, tilting his head back and dripping Visine into road-map eyes. “And if I may say so, Brook, it’s really good to hear your voice after all this time. How long has it been? Back in Key West with Serge? . . . No, I don’t have any idea where he is. You know that maniac—he’s liable to be anywhere . . .”

  Meanwhile . . .

  A silver Corvette drove extra slow around a quiet lake in western Volusia County.

  “This is boring,” said Coleman.

  “Just keep your eyes peeled.” Serge carefully scanned the side of the road. “I didn’t spend all my time rigging the car stereo up to that bullhorn for nothing.”

  “Wait.” Coleman pointed. “I think I see one.”

  Serge scooched up to the windshield. “You’re right.” He accelerated.

  “We’re almost next to him,” said Coleman.

  “Get ready with that bullhorn.” Serge pulled closer to the grass and a narrow footpath circling the water.

  Coleman giggled. “Is he going to be surprised!”

  “That’s the whole point,” said Serge, reaching for a knob. “This is all about unlocking inner potential.”

  They had just about reached the jogger when Coleman aimed the bullhorn out his window, and Serge cranked the volume.

  “. . . Eye of the tiger! . . .”

  “Man, did he jump,” said Coleman.

  “But notice how he’s moving faster?” Serge depressed the gas pedal to remain precisely beside the runner. “Just keep that bullhorn up.”

  “. . . Eye of the tiger! . . .”

  “He keeps glancing back at us,” said Coleman. “He’s running even faster now.”

  “I have a gift for motivating people.” The Corvette continued alongside the runner. “There are a lot of openings today for life coaches.”

  “Is that your new job for the next episode of Route 66?”

  “This is just a vignette.”

  “. . . Eye of the tiger! . . .”

  “He just left the path and is racing down the bank,” said Coleman. “Now he jumped in the lake.”

  “See? He was limiting himself to just running,” said Serge, “when it only took me a couple minutes to show him the possibilities of triathlons.”

  The music cut off, and Coleman fiddled with the bullhorn in his lap. “How’d you come up with this great idea, anyway?”

  “Can’t take credit,” said Serge. “It’s a new underground Internet phenomenon. Check it out on my smartphone.”

  Coleman scrolled down through various video clips. “Damn, hundreds of others are all doing the same thing we just did.”

  “And people say America doesn’t have culture.” The Stingray crested a small hill leading out into the countryside.

  “So what is your next job?”

  “That will become readily apparent when we get to Cassadaga.”

  Coleman twisted up a fat one. “Never heard of it.”

  “Most people haven’t,” said Serge. “But it’s possibly the most unique place in all the state, way off the beaten track between DeLand and Deltona. There isn’t even a proper highway exit, so you have to keep jumping country roads until you reach this tiny—and I mean tiny—little town out in the woods.”

  “How much longer?”

  “You’ll know when you start seeing the signs.”

  They started seeing the signs: Medicine Man Pastor Pete; Psychic Shop; Crystals, Jewelry, Aura Photos; Mediums & Healers; Purple Rose Readings; Native American and Metaphysical Stuff; We Now Do Astrology Charts; Tarot Cards; Certified Mentalist On Duty; Kathy Is Here.

  “You’re right,” said Coleman. “This is the weirdest place I’ve ever seen. All these psychics.”

  “But that’s not the strangest thing to me,” said Serge. “It’s the total retail hegemony, like if you drove into a town and every single business only sold yogurt.”

  “But how did this place happen?”

  “Founded in 1894 by a New York man named George Colby, who wanted to establish a paranormal-friendly community.” Serge made a right turn onto Stevens Street. “What caps it off for me is all the history, like the majestic Cassadaga Hotel over there, built in 1927. Where else can you drive deep into the sticks, and then suddenly find this time-frozen grande dame rising out of nowhere with spinning paddle fans on the sitting porch and an antique wooden phone booth in the lobby that’s been converted into a ‘Meditation Station,’ where you go inside to make toll-free calls to your third eye?”

  “What’s this other place across the street?”

  “Where we get our start.” Serge parked in front of a century-old wooden-slat building with a new tin roof. They entered through double doors beneath a sign: Bookstore and Information Center.

  Coleman strolled down an aisle, picking up items for sale. “This place sure is into scented oils and candles.”

  “Like a Pottery Barn without the strings.”

  They moved along a wall with shelves full of crystals in the shapes of pyramids, obelisks and opaque spheres resting atop tripods. Other crystals were raw in form, glistening green with pointy purple formations encased in rocks that had been cut in half by special saws.

  “What’s the deal with all the crystals?” asked Coleman.

  “They’re imbued with a menu of special powers by those so inclined to think,” said Serge. “Healing properties, energy, spiritual connections. Some even believe they contain ancient memories.”

  “How do they work?”

  “Many ways. Some believers put them in glasses of water to drink, or boil them with potions to produce a pleasant vapor for aromatherapy. Others rub them on their skin or just carry them around in their pockets. But I think mostly they just look at them.” Serge grabbed a statue of a wizard holding a crystal. “Like this thing. Stick it in the middle of the dining room table full of believers, and everyone gets jazzed.”

  Coleman chuckled. “That’s messed up.”

  “Maybe on the surface, to outsiders,” said Serge. “But I’m not so quick to judge. The part where they simply stare at the things is likely a placebo effect. On the other hand, these are real chemical compounds, forming lattice structures in compliance with the laws of the periodic table. This crystal may look totally solid, but most of it is actually empty space with electrons furiously orbiting shit, so who really knows what’s going on? Ironically, it’s science itself that causes me to be open-minded and insatiably curious about something apparently unscientific. Now I must do further research.”

  Serge grabbed a large reference volume off a shelf and approached the counter.

  “Anything else?” asked the cashier.
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  “Just the book on lucky crystals,” said Serge. “Sorry, I’m guessing ‘lucky’ has a pejorative tone around here. I meant ‘all-powerful.’ It’s about respect and proper manners. If you’re a guest at someone else’s church, you don’t stand there the whole time the pastor is preaching and sarcastically say, ‘Yeah, right,’ or worse . . .” He turned toward the crystal display and said “Yeah, right” again, but this time he also pumped a fist up and down in a jerking-off gesture. He faced the cashier again. “That would be bad, too. How much for the book? . . .”

  Serge grabbed his gift bag and walked to the back of the store. A wooden sign hung high on a wall: Expect a Miracle. Below it was a door. “I must open it.” He led Coleman inside an empty room that looked completely different from the front of the building. Drop ceiling, wood paneling, American flag, long folding tables with plastic cloths covered in sunflowers.

  “This is like an Elks lodge,” said Coleman.

  “It’s exactly like an Elks lodge,” said Serge, staring at a podium under another sign: Southern Cassadaga Spiritualist Association.

  From behind: “Excuse me, can I help you?”

  The guys turned to see a middle-aged woman wiping her hands in the doorway of the adjacent kitchen.

  “Sorry if we’re not supposed to be in here,” said Serge. “I see new doors and need to open them. You have to live by a code. I’m naturally curious, more so than most.”

  “That’s all right,” said the woman. “We encourage curiosity around here.”

  Serge’s head snapped back with a puzzled look. “You encourage curiosity? And yet you call yourself a religion?” He quickly covered his mouth. “Oops, I think I just offended everyone in the world.”

  “Nobody gets offended around here. Everyone’s free to be an individual.”

  “I’m beginning to feel that vibe,” said Serge. “Not like those creepy walled compounds out west where church elders banish all the young men and force the women to wear gingham and become grandmothers before they can vote.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Listen, I don’t want to horn in on anyone’s action,” said Serge, “but the episode only lasts a week and I need to fast-track my next job as a psychic. I have a gift.”

  “Ah, I understand now,” said the woman. “You’ve come to develop yourself. That’s absolutely wonderful. I’m not quite sure, though, about a week . . .”

  “Any advice would be greatly appreciated.”

  “May I suggest coming back here Sunday morning? We have a nice breakfast in this hall purely on a donation basis, followed by the Grove Service.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In the old days, it was held out in an orange grove, but now we have this building. You’ll meet regular and apprentice mediums who go table to table for a series of three-minute readings.”

  “Cool. Psychic speed dating,” said Serge. “But Sunday’s pushing it. What about, say, right now?”

  “In that case . . .” She pointed back through the door. “There’s a separate room at the end of the store. You’ll find a telephone and a washable whiteboard with listings of everyone currently on call—”

  The hall was empty before she could finish, and the door swung closed.

  Serge stared up at the whiteboard and rubbed his mouth. “I didn’t realize this was so involved. The listings are rigidly divided between mediums and healers. All guaranteed to be officially certified and permitted.”

  Coleman tapped Serge on the back. “What kind of test do you think they give to certify them?”

  “Probably a blank piece of paper,” said Serge. “Then they turn it back in blank because the person grading the exam is also a psychic.”

  A TV was on in the corner, playing a promotional. Serge walked over and turned up the volume.

  “What’s going on?” asked Coleman.

  “A reality show is using a psychic to try to solve a missing-persons case.”

  A woman in a paisley silk robe sat in a darkened room and closed her eyes. She held a photograph of a teenage girl. Her hands began to tremble. “Her body won’t be found immediately . . .”

  “Wow,” said Coleman. “Do you think she’s really going to crack the case?”

  “Not a chance,” said Serge. “I once watched an otherwise reputable crime program, and even the cops were taken in by the charlatan they’d hired. The key to the whole scam is making the general sound specific, like, ‘The victim’s body will be found near water. There is some kind of mechanical sound. I’m getting a vision of colored lights.’ . . . And if the police ask about a name, she says she sees the letters E and T.”

  “Sounds pretty specific to me,” said Coleman.

  “That’s the whole point,” said Serge. “But E and T are the most common letters in the English language. And try getting away from water, sounds and lights. Who’s to say how near is near? In the show I saw, they later found the body in the woods. And as proof the psychic was right, the narrator said there was a river on the edge of town, jackhammers were fixing a road, and some intersection had a traffic signal.”

  “That’s amazing!” said Coleman.

  “It’s amazing she earns a living,” said Serge. “That’s why I know it’s the job for me. The whole point is to find the body, so when they finally do locate the shallow grave, that’s all they care about—totally forgetting some psychic gibberish five months ago that was so vague it fit half the cold cases in the country. That’s why I say screw generalizing and give them a real show: ‘The body will be found strangled with a Siberian weasel and buried in a calliope beneath a time-share sweat lodge.’ And if they ask me about a name, I’ll respond with African clicking sounds.”

  The TV continued in the background. “. . . I see colored lights and the letters E and T . . .”

  Coleman followed Serge back to the whiteboard. “Which one are you going to call?”

  “This one looks interesting.” Serge picked up the phone. “Madam Bovary . . .”

  Back at the Office

  The fluorescent newsroom hummed the hum of a major breaking story. Phones rang, keyboards clattered, people rushed past each other with documents. Reason: City work crews had just discovered sixty-five bodies buried along Interstate 95. The grisly remains turned out to be a forgotten cemetery, but TV is a visual medium, and bulldozers and bones are always welcome.

  More reporters ran across the newsroom. At the end of the open floor plan sat a row of glassed-in executive offices. Through the window of one such office, the staff could see silent gestures and emotional body language. An important person sat behind the desk, and someone less so sat in front.

  Reevis rubbed both hands down his face in frustration.

  “Are you all right?” asked his assignment editor.

  “I can’t work with these guys anymore,” said Reevis. “They stand for everything I’m against.”

  “I know this has been a rough transition—”

  “Rough? Did you see my ridiculous noon segment at the graveyard by the highway?” asked Reevis. “After I refused to drive a bulldozer, Nigel actually dug up a skull and tossed it to me while I was live on the air.”

  The editor winced. “That part could have been handled with more sensitivity.”

  “Not to mention what happened yesterday,” said Reevis. “I had a key person ready to be interviewed, and they wrecked it again.”

  “That also was unfortunate,” the editor said evenly. “And I passed your objections up through proper channels.”

  “Obviously it didn’t help,” said Reevis. “They put it on the air last night anyway. The chaos with the motel owner, and then two camera crews chasing each other around the parking lot. Not to mention the day before, when they charged into our meeting and jammed a lens in my face, making me look like a clown.”

  The editor took a slow, diplomatic breath. “We discussed that at the marketing breakfast this morning. It seems we received very favorable feedback on that last segment.”


  “What segment?” asked Reevis. “They just manufactured a meaningless confrontation by rudely barging into your office for no reason.”

  “Exactly,” said Shug. “The focus group loved the idea of us ruthlessly investigating ourselves. Our confidence and trust ratings went through the roof.”

  “But we weren’t investigating ourselves.”

  “And our parent company insists we continue.”

  “Continue doing something we’re not doing?”

  “They said it boosts the audience’s faith.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” said Reevis. “We fake stuff to show we have principles?”

  “And integrity.”

  Reevis rolled his eyes. “Anything else?”

  “Corporate wants us to follow up by allowing Nigel and Günter to film us as we clean house.”

  “What for?”

  “Weed out all the journalistic corruption that’s led to an epidemic of fabricated stories.”

  “Who’s fabricating stories?”

  “Just Nigel and Günter,” said the editor. “There are going to be a number of firings. It could get ugly.”

  The pair were interrupted by screaming outside in the general newsroom. A woman wept hysterically at her desk as a film crew bore down on her with their camera. Then she fled for the exit, and Günter ran jiggling after her.

  Reevis turned back around. “And you’re okay with this?”

  “I’ve got kids in college.” Shug looked out his office window. “Uh-oh.”

  “They’re heading over here.”

  The editor got up and locked the door.

  Nigel rattled the knob and knocked. “Come on guys, let us in.”

  “Where were we?” asked Shug.

  “It could get ugly.” Reevis pointed. “Now they’re filming us through the window.”

  The editor walked over and closed the blinds. “We’re entering a period that’s going to become a little turbulent, but it’s only temporary.”